Little
by Bonnie in the Rafters
Summary: A story based on Rotti's henchwomen shocking, I know . I suck at summaries. Kind of a lot of swearing, some dark thoughts, hinting at fem/fem relationship.


Note: I know very little about the henchwomen. I searched and couldn't even find their names, if they have them. So all of this is obviously made up, hah. Hence the term fanfiction. Apologies for any mistakes I make, like if they do have names or if there are facts about them out there. But either way this little fic revolves around them, and thanks for reading!

Also, I had a bit of difficulty with this. I've never written about a relationship as so, but it seems right for them, in my opinion. Plus, there's an unfair lack of stories about them. Amber's valets get everything, grr.

* * *

The bullet got him right in the head. She herself couldn't have aimed it better. Then again, it seemed like the girl could do everything better than she could.

Through her thick, hardly-handy sunglasses that Rotti made them wear (to look mysterious, because guns and stockings weren't ominous enough), she stared down at the now-deceased doctor laying on the office floor. Perfect, clean hit, straight through the center of his brain. The blood seeped onto the carpet through the back of his head, matting his white, thinning hair. She always thought that blood was so pretty, and she knew that the girl standing on Rotti's other side felt the same.

It was funny. They had been two separate beings, living on opposite sides of the earth – she herself in Wisconsin, and her in Germany. She worked on a farm during the summer and hunted deer as a hobby, and the German chick modeled. And now they were bound to serve the Largos (mostly Rotti) for however long they were needed. Many people mistook them for twins. They had the same fine chiseled bone structure, the same pouty lips and mousy-blonde hair. That had been a term the German used to describe it – mousy, dull blonde, always pulled back into a ponytail. And the lipstick with the blue tint, and those stockings. Female versions of Amber's Valets, just eye candy for a sick old man instead of a young socialite.

At first, it had been only her. She was eighteen and had lost her mother to heart failure, since GeneCo had only just opened up and wasn't international yet. There was an ad – "Young Lean Female with Defense and Firearm Skills needed". Sounded like a dating ad, but she figured she should try, and won the spot after shooting an apple off of Pavi's (then a relatively normal guy) head. It was humorous, in a silly way. She didn't really know much about GeneCo at that point, and took the job willingly. And it wasn't until two years later that Rotti became a full-blown world-renowned hero instead of a local celebrity. Up until that year, her job consisted mostly of telling Amber "No" and talking Luigi's battered ex-girlfriends and wives into not pressing charges. It was a strange lifestyle, and she was living in a small, dingy apartment connected to Rotti's office. But it was only her, and she felt needed. Wanted. Special. More than most girls her age.

And then Rotti became huge, and he needed someone else. At first she feared for her job when he said this. And then once the fear subsided, the anger took over – the first years of her life as an adult she spent slaving for him, and now that he was important, he didn't need her anymore? She raged. She raged in her apartment at night, throwing her abandoned school papers and smoking countless cigars to calm to herself. She raged silently at Rotti's side, thinking that maybe she should off the old man. Her rage grew and grew, and finally, one day Rotti called her into her office, to introduce her to her decided new roommate and fellow Rotti Largo henchwoman.

She remembered it perfectly. Walking in to see this prim, tall young girl standing by his desk, holding herself up straight, with pride. She saw a resemblance between herself and the girl immediately, except this girl was daintier, more feminine, prettier.

Her first thought was to call her a bitch.

And then to call her a skank.

And then to call her useless, because she looked like she could break at any moment.

And then the girl smiled at her, and the rage reached a breaking point, and she smiled back.

She hated the girl. She mentioned having a name, talking later that night in their (she hated that – it was hers) apartment, but she didn't listen or care. All she could think about was the rage – this dumb little pretty girl was supposed to be equal to _her_, was supposed to kick ass and be hardcore. It was unimaginable and ridiculous. As she thought over all this, the German kept talking, and she couldn't help but stare at her lips. Heart-shaped, and such a rosy kind of pink, the kind that didn't seem natural, or seemed like you would only see on a child or a baby. She wondered if the German was a virgin. She wondered if she could use her lips well on lovers, but no, she seemed too pure. She wondered what the bottom lip would look like if she cracked her one – would it still be pretty, bruised and bleeding? She wished she could try.

The next day, waking up at 4:30 AM as always to please Rotti Largo, she quickly dressed and saw that the German was no where to be found. Of course – she couldn't handle this job. 4:30 was too early for a little diva like her. Smirking, she thought about leaving without her, but she knew how Rotti could get. She could be punished for that, though it wouldn't be her fault. So albeit irritated and annoyed, she knocked on the German's door, and lost her breath at what answered.

The German chick had put on her outfit and seemed ready to go, except for the fact that she was desperately trying to get her boot on with one hand (the other holding the door open). The first thing she noticed were her legs, in those dark stockings. They were so long and fragile looking, and she dared to allow her eyes to travel upwards to the tight shorts, but stopped short of letting herself imagine anything other than what she was seeing. She wanted to throw the bitch against the door for almost being late, and then suffocate her with kisses for looking so damn nice.

It was that way every morning, and every night. Every moment they were near each other. The German was just so _pure_, it drove her nuts. So cheery, even when shooting doctors dead. So cheeky, so quirky, that even Luigi didn't mind her.

But to her, she was still the bitch. The underdog. The useless. Walking alongside her with Rotti she was an equal, but in their apartment, in her mind, against the walls and in the showers, the little German would always be her bitch. For however long the Largos needed them. For however long she wanted, because as you know dogs can't leave their owners as long as they're leashed, and underneath the jacket the German bitch wears her collar. Always.


End file.
